Not just a soldier
by TheWeirdDane
Summary: Through good and bad days, John and Sherlock have each other. But what happens when John is being recalled to the military?
1. Chapter 1

**Hi there! I have no idea what I'm doing with my DenSu-fic, so it's on pause. I'll be writing other things meanwhile. Here is my first attempt of some Johnlock. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own the character or show "Sherlock Holmes", nor do I own any of the characters in the show. I don't make any money of this, it's solely for my own purpose. And in this case, a friend.**

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It was a long time since they had seen each other. John had been away for military training, multiple times assuring Sherlock that it was not his favourite thing to do right now. He liked to blow up tanks, yes, and he got a real kick out of solving tactically complicated situations, indeed, but he had come to like the quiet life he had with Sherlock. Or, well, 'quiet' was maybe a wrong word; they hadn't exactly been solving normal crime cases. But all in all, he had liked that just as much as being in the military.

Now, though, his mind was weary from the training. It had been just as exhausting as a real mission since they had to act like it was and therefore couldn't relax or take it easy. They had been pushed to their limits, as always. He tried to focus his mind on the present – he was back, away from the training camps and away from other men who seemed way younger than he, way more prepared for what they had already done so many times.

Had he become old? Was he growing too old for this soldier-thing? He didn't want to believe that. He wasn't old, anyway. But the others had still looked so much younger, so much readier to do what they had to do. Was he, John Watson, a great soldier, or well, doctor, getting so much out of shape, out of mind, that he couldn't go back? That couldn't be true… could it?

John was deep in thought and didn't notice the crowd of people around him, just as he didn't really notice a tall man in a long, black coat with collars that were characteristically turned up. His clear eyes scanned the crowd, and pierced John's forehead when he was sighted.

But Sherlock didn't step forward to meet John with a hug. It wasn't like him to do that. He stood still and waited for the other to come to him. At this rate, though, it was dubious if the man would even see him. John was clearly thinking hardly about something – without doubt the things he had been through during training – and Sherlock was not one to dig into that. Fascinating as his "flatmate's" way and process of thinking might be, this was something rather personal.

Unlike Sherlock to care about someone's privacy, you say? Well, maybe, but Sherlock had spent enough time with John to know that some things he just wouldn't tell. And these things were, much to his frustration, often something that bothered John a whole lot, and things that Sherlock wished to gain knowledge of. It was one of his great interests to study how certain events affected 'ordinary' humans' minds.

"John."

He had called out a bit too soon. John was still not close enough to hug him, as Sherlock knew he would. The smaller man looked up and feigned a smile – too much force around the lips, corners of the eyes not wrinkling – thanking Sherlock for showing up. Then the hug followed, and Sherlock returned it, probably a bit too tight for his usual stiffness and awkwardness around other people.

"Sherlock."

They stood like that for a while, and Sherlock knew that John knew that he could let go anytime. He normally let go rather quickly, knowing that Sherlock wasn't really the social type of person and this time was no different. Iy was a surprise but the reason wasn't hard to figure out.

John was a proud man, even if he sometimes made a fool of himself in public. Sherlock didn't take any credit for that, or the reasons behind.

"We should go for a cab, shouldn't we?"

"It would certainly be a good idea, seeing as I didn't bring one with me."

They walked towards the exit together, in a way that didn't get them much attention. They kept a fitting distance between them and might as well be two good friends who hadn't seen each other for a while. Sherlock wasn't good at small-talk but he made a few feeble attempts, all of them met by John who pretended nothing was wrong. However, there were times where John didn't answer. It was always when Sherlock hinted at something even remotely related to soldiers and war.

It didn't take long to get a cab, not at this time of the day where they seemed to infest the entire city. The ride home wasn't long, either, but it was in silence; something that was rather unusual when the two were together. John came with his own attempts of small-talk but unlike himself, Sherlock didn't react to them very well. A defect that came with shutting people out before they got close.

The cab stopped outside the familiar door that opened to reveal the staircase to their shared flat. They still lived here, it was the most convenient for everyone. Besides, Mrs. Hudson would never let them leave, that dear woman.

And as expected, she greeted them with warmth and joy, although she kept it down a little out of consideration for John. It seemed he appreciated it, for this time, his smile was more real, although it was overall still fake.

"I'm bringing up some tea in a few minutes, boys, so please do settle down while I prepare it," she chirped and Sherlock had to admire her, even for just a second, for being so energetic. She wasn't young anymore but she had more energy than he sensed was the case for other women her age.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock took one of John's bags and carried it upstairs for him, not without slight protests from the latter. But the man in front simply ignored them, opened the door to their flat and put down the bag on the couch, in a way so it wouldn't bother John when he would sit down in a few seconds.

Right now, actually.

John uttered a slight groan and closed his eyes. The bag he had been carrying was unceremoniously dropped onto the floor. Sherlock looked over at him for a few seconds before nudging it under the nearby desk with his foot. It would remain there for a little longer, until John had to unpack. That would probably take a while, though, if Sherlock knew John well enough (which he prided himself of).

He didn't do much to contact John at first. He let the man do what he wanted – which showed to spend extraordinarily long time on the computer – and only consulted him to suggest a cup of tea (Mrs. Hudson hadn't showed up yet) or a plate of biscuits. A few times, he even offered to play something on his violin, and while John accepted it with mock joy, he only listened for a few minutes.

Finally, Sherlock sat down in front of John, on the floor, and placed a hand on his knee.

"John, can you please tell me what happened at the training camp?"

John's eyes did a minimal twitch, and his finger slipped half a centimetre to the right. Not big signs but enough to tell Sherlock that he was not happy to talk about it.

"It's nothing important," he said, brushing Sherlock off with his usually calm voice, "nothing that you need to know of."

"But it's bothering you."

"No, it isn't."

"John, you've been staring at the computer screen for five minutes straight without writing, clicking or doing anything. What are you thinking about? Which of the events that are bound to have happened is haunting your mind?"

"Sherlock, please," he looked up from the computer, finally meeting Sherlock's eyes, and his gaze was almost judicially, "I don't wish to talk about it. Can't you just leave it at that?"

Just then, the door was opened, and Mrs. Hudson entered. In her hands she carried a tray with two cups, a pot, and a plate of biscuits. Vapour rose from the cups and a delicious scent spread in the room.

"I'm sorry, boys, but one of my old friends called, and I just forgot the time!"

She had been about to say something more but stopped when she saw Sherlock's frown and his kneeling position in front of John. It might be that she didn't know about what had happened to John during his training but it couldn't possibly be more obvious that it had been awful, if not horrible.

"I made your favourite biscuits, John, dear, the ones with blueberry. Hopefully the tea is to your liking as well, I tried some new leaves I got the other day."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said and smiled in a way that Sherlock knew was false but she did not. She just smiled in return and placed the tray in the kitchen – a little shriek escaped her when she saw a cage of dead mice and a bunch of ripped-off human fingers – before coming back to the living room.

"Sherlock, what in the world-"

"It's for a case in the eastern part of London. Quite entertaining, really, but I must ask you to leave us, Mrs. Hudson. John is having an indisposition."

She nodded to them and quickly escorted herself out, closing the door with a soft 'click'. John looked back at Sherlock, frowning ever so lightly.

"Why did you lie to her?"

"I didn't. You _are_ not feeling well, it's obvious. Your hand is quivering, and you blink excessively, just as you think I cannot see your twitching lips."

Not pleased with the easiness that Sherlock saw through his shield, John went back to his computer, possibly updating his blog about his return.

"Mrs. Hudson worries for you, too, John."

"Too? What do you mean 'too', I don't worry for me."

Sherlock sighed and got up from the floor, stretching to his full height, which was rather impressive. His gaze was unexplainable.

"How many people do you know that might worry for you, Doctor John Watson?"

This seemed to catch the soldier's attention. People only very rarely called him by his title _and_ name. He looked up and met the other's eyes, finding them oddly firm and serious, seeing as this was not concerning a case.

"Mrs. Hudson, Sarah, Molly, Lestrade, perhaps, but I'm not really-"

"So you think that Lestrade worries for you, but you don't even consider me?"

John's small frown got bigger, and he squinted a bit. Then he laughed, but it was an odd laugh; restrained, as if caught in his lungs and unable to get free.

"You? But why would _you_ worry about me, Sherlock? You only care about cases and getting back at Moriarty for the trick he played us a few months ago. I didn't think you even _could_ find sympathy for other humans."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a small round in the living room before he settled in front of John again, face firm and lines sharp, the prominent cheekbones looking even more prominent than normally. His eyes were alive with the flame of worry.

"John, I've known you for God knows how long now. You're not just anybody, not just any 'human'. I thought you knew that by now."

They looked at each other, John with small and suspicious eyes, Sherlock with determined and serious ones. Sherlock waited for John's response. They had been going out for about half a year – not officially, though, of course – and still it seemed John couldn't trust him with emotions. Had he not shown himself worthy of his devotion? Had he not proved that he _was_ capable of showing love, even though it might have taken longer than it would for any other? _That_ had happened, so what was the big deal? Wasn't that what people associated with the emotion 'love', the physical love?

For half a year, Sherlock had slowly learnt what it would say to love another human. He had been working closely with John for many years, but only lately did he realize that his feelings were beginning to change. Unsure what to do about this unexpected change, he consulted Mrs. Hudson who he trusted could keep quiet with this. She had been completely taken aback but as soon as the shock had faded, she wasn't late in giving advice.

After all his attempts of being a devoted and loving partner, John still couldn't trust him to be worried about him when he was away for a longer period of time?

Did that mean he wasn't good? This was not something he would usually bother his mind with but he couldn't help it. Due to John and those pesky emotions sneaking in everywhere, he was beginning to doubt if he was good enough for John.

But none of this, none of the thoughts or emotions, showed in his face. He was calm, composed, still quiet, when John finally sighed heavily and pushed the laptop away.

"But why? It's not like I haven't been on this kind of thing before."

"You haven't been called in for military service for over half a year. Before that, you were never this upset when getting home. The reason is obviously me, so I believe you have some form of duty of telling me what happened."

John looked dumbfounded. Sherlock assumed it was how he figured out that John worried for what would happen in he died in war and left Sherlock alone – like so many others had done before him – but John didn't confirm or deny it. He simply sighed again and leant forward, slowly connecting his palms and head.

And he began talking. He explained why this had been especially terrible, and he told Sherlock exactly what made him so upset and nervous. Just why this time had been so much worse than usually. While he talked, Sherlock gradually moved from the floor to the couch, sitting next to the whispering soldier. Despite having been together for so long by now, Sherlock was still a little clueless as to how to react – everyone seemed to react differently, how was he supposed to know what to do? – but he went for the only one he knew safe – stroking John's back and keeping silent.

He let John talk his voice hoarse, let him ease his worries until his eyes were red from tears and his cheeks from their trail. For once, Sherlock didn't interrupt him and didn't do anything to stop him from talking. His knowledge of human psychology was extensive, and he knew it was important to talk about things like this.

However, this was the first time he had ever shown any interest, be it real or not. And this time, it was all real.

John told him of the way they 'refreshed' their discipline, and though it had been horrible methods, there were some that caught Sherlock's attention. Not just once, but several times had he been forced to control himself and not ask questions concerning those methods further.

The more John talked, the closer Sherlock got. Sometime during the long stream of words, he had taken his arms around the smaller man and held him close against his chest. That was as far as his consoling knowledge went, however. He didn't do much beside that, maybe uttering a small "It's okay" or "Don't worry, I'm right here".

In the end, when John was done crying, he took some deep breaths and his shivering, yet tight grip on Sherlock's shirt slacked a bit. With swollen eyes he looked up and met his, and Sherlock was surprised to see glimpses of worry.

For a moment longer, they sat in silence while John got back up. Sherlock patiently waited, although his patience _was_ being tested, much more than Lestrade or Anderson or any of the others had ever done.

"How are you feeling?"

"Tired." It was little more than a whisper but it was accompanied by a smile that Sherlock deemed real, and John slumped against him. "I'm very tired, but also very happy."

Obviously. He had been crying for an hour or so, and he had been allowed to whine like a child. _Without_ his 'flatmate' leaving him, mind you. Sherlock was still here, and he did not love John any bit less after hearing this. If anything, it had made him like him even more.

Being trusted with this, even if he had been the one asking, he saw as an honour. People never trusted him with these kinds of things because they never thought him appropriate or worthy.

"Next time, John," Sherlock began with a small smile playing over his pale face, "you tell me things like this on your own accord, okay?"

A part snort, part laugh escaped John's mouth but this didn't work out in his favour.

"John, I'm serious."

"Are you ever anything but serious, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't get to answer before John had taken a firm grip of the back of his head and pulled him down and forward enough to kiss. At first, Sherlock froze, not yet used to improvised kisses, but he relaxed slowly after and returned it.

It wasn't exactly the answer he had been looking for, but he trusted that John got his point.

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**I don't think I have much more to say than "sorry" for this first attempt of writing Johnlock.**


	2. Chapter 2

**This is taking place a little over a decade ago, since some of the "plot" can't function in modern time. I apologize beforehand for rotten characterisation. **

**Not beta-read, and I still don't own anything but this story. **

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It was a long time since they had seen each other. This time, it had been a real military mission in Iraq, not Afghanistan as it had previously been. It had confused both of them but John had simply shrugged and begun packing.

Sherlock had worried the most, although he didn't let it show, and one day, he took John aside during a crime scene investigation, asking if John wasn't nervous. It was a new place, and the bit he knew about it had he learnt from the military training that had brought him down so much. John wasn't so upset. Of course, he was a bit anxious about being sent somewhere new, and probably meet soldier friends, but come on, he had done it so many times before.

He had lived as a soldier, damn it! If he was nervous about new places he would probably never have gotten into this career in the first place. The subsequent argument had been heated but without curse words flying through the room – after all, they _were_ British and supposed to be gentlemanly. John hadn't caught onto what was wrong; it was like Sherlock was suddenly protective of him, something he had not been before. Sure, he had showed signs of nervousness but not outright protectiveness.

It was odd and freaky, yet it felt good. John had sometimes allowed himself to relish in the fact that he was the only one Sherlock had been protective of.

But that was in the past. John had packed his bags and left. As they were not officially together, they couldn't kiss each other goodbye at the airport. That, they had done at home (plus maybe a little more). At the airport, when Sarah, Mike, Lestrade and some others were also present, they had simply shaken hands and been formal, yet relaxed, just like two good friends would be.

Now Sherlock stood at the airport once more, glancing at his clock. The plane had just arrived. It was unlike him to wait for anyone at their return from somewhere, but then again, what did he know? He hadn't really had a serious relationship before, so who was he to know how he would behave in various situations? Lestrade would certainly laugh at him, or he would be thoroughly surprised. Even after Sherlock revealed that he and John were together, of course.

He chuckled lowly for himself, earning himself an odd glance from a passing couple. Yes, maybe he should tell Lestrade that, just to see his reaction which without a doubt would be priceless. And John, he would probably laugh, too. Oh, how marvellous it would be.

Why wasn't John hurrying, anyway? He should be out of the plane now. Sherlock easily looked over the increasingly crowded place, waiting to spot the small man in military uniform, hopefully with a bigger smile on his face this time. Or just a smile, that would be great.

Time passed slowly, and a sinking feeling announced its presence in his stomach. Why wasn't John getting out of the plane, why were they not on the way home together right now? The humans passed by him without much notice or interest on either part. He only really cared for his soldier.

It was probably an hour later that he heard his mobile phone beep. Long and slender fingers skilfully dove into the pocket and sneaked it out, smoothly accepting the call and placing the device at his ears. Out of habit, he didn't start the conversation by introducing himself. He figured that if anybody called his phone, then they probably knew him, anyway, and then an introduction would be superfluous.

And like usual, it wasn't necessary now, either.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"The very same."

It wasn't John's voice, but instead a hard, commanding one. Sherlock exhaled deeply, and began looking around the hall again. Of course, John's voice could be like that, too, but he wouldn't do that now, not in this situation. He ought to know that Sherlock would be waiting for him, and he ought to know that Sherlock did not appreciate being played tricks on like that.

"I'm Major Pennders. It is my hard duty to inform you that your friend, John Watson, has fallen victim to our enemy's bullets in Iraq, alongside fellow soldiers."

"How did you know who to call?"

He reacted with shocking calmness, bordering to indifference. Clearly, the person in the other end of the phone had been warned of such possible behaviour and wasn't taken aback.

"Captain John told us that if he happened to die, there was only one person we should contact as soon as possible, and-"

"That obviously happens to me, what else did he say?"

As if interrupting a high-ranking man from the military was completely normal, Sherlock turned on his heel and began walking through the airport, towards the exit. His conversation partner acted like he hadn't heard the impudence that was obvious in his voice.

"That was all he asked us to tell you over phone."

"Over phone?" That left a possibility for a personal meeting. Sherlock looked around as he walked, as if he expected to find John sitting on a bench, drinking a cup of tea in the middle of the crowd.

"When are you going to meet me?" _'And how can I, in the first place, be sure that you're not Moriarty bluffing me again?'_ That would be just like him, that blasted moron!

"In a few hours. Captain John told us that two hours would be enough for your mourning."

The consulting detective made a funny sound, something in between a surprised snort and a pained whine. Whatever you called it, it was _very_ uncharacteristic.

"God, John, always trying to estimate my extent of emotions. You will meet me in 22 1 B Baker Street in exactly two and a half hours."

But before the other got a chance to agree or disagree, Sherlock had hung up. His otherwise genius super-speed mind was halting at one, single point; reacting to the news of John's death. He couldn't believe it. John was a good soldier, he had survived many things, been away many times before, it couldn't just be right that he had died this time.

Someone had to be playing a trick on him. And he could only think of one person who was morbid enough to do it - Moriarty. Should he call? He looked down at the phone in his hand as he walked, not for a second considering the possibility of bumping into other people. It wasn't like he was concerned about them, anyway, so why worry?

"Moriarty, what is your plan this time?"

"Plan? My dearest Sherlock, what are you on about? The clock is a quarter past eight, wouldn't now be a little late to set a plan in work?"

"No, it would be exactly like you," Sherlock answered and wove down a cab once he was outside. Moriarty laughed his characteristic, insane laughter.

"Always so trustful! But tell me, what should this plan I'm apparently working on include? More innocent people who could fall victim for me if you're not fast enough?"

"I'm always fast enough. This is concerning my best man."

Finally he got a cab and got in, announcing his destination and leaning back in the seat.

"Dear Johnny? Oh, but what has happened to him?" A spark of anger flared in Sherlock's chest, and for the shortest moment, he was tempted to throw the phone out the window. He bloody well ought to know what this was all about! Wasn't it him who was behind it?

Deciding that Moriarty wasn't worth his time when he acted like a clueless idiot, Sherlock hung up again but instead of putting the phone back in his pocket, he called another and much more trusted person.

"Sherlock, what is it, why aren't you home yet?" Mrs. Hudson's voice was a little bit more airy than normally and Sherlock knew that she knew something was wrong. Then his following words certainly weren't going to be those of consolidation.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hudson. Have you heard anything about the status and dead soldiers in Iraq?"

A short but telling silence followed that sentence before his landlord answered. Mrs. Hudson knew that the reason for Sherlock's delay was somehow related to John. She still pretended like nothing.

"No, I don't, dear, but the news are on shortly," she answered and her voice was forced calm (Sherlock easily noticed the nearly non-existent shaking and slightly accelerated breathing), "it would be a good idea to watch them, I think."

Of course. He had planned to do that, anyway. Watching the news was something John usually did, Sherlock never cared much for it but it could be useful at times. Like now.

The cab came to a halt just outside 22 1 B Baker Street, and after having paid the driver, Sherlock hurried to the flat, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's worried calling, and went straight for the television. He turned it on with steady fingers but when the news weren't on immediately, he started tapping them on the armrest of the chair. Couldn't they just bloody hurry? The news was more important than… whatever this stupid show was!

He waited for probably five minutes before the news presenter showed up on the screen. She looked neat, with her long blond hair put up in a ponytail and make-up on, and her clothes were tasteful and very well colour-combined. Her voice was soft and calm, yet kept you attentive. All in all, she was a good choice for a news presenter.

And she said it. She announced with grief that a considerable amount of British soldiers had been killed in the war in Iraq. The list was long but some of the soldiers stood out. One of them was a man in his early twenties, the other in his mid-thirties. This man had easily been identified by his dog tags but they had found a small surprise in form of a medallion in one of his pockets. It wasn't big, the size of a normal USB-stick, yet it was easy to recognize the even smaller photo that had been put into it. It was a man, not old and not young, probably a bit younger than John, and his hair was black, curly and all over his head. It looked soft, very soft, even, like you could just pet it for days on end without growing tired of it. The man's skin was pale, but not in an unhealthy way. His face was serious, yet mild, despite the lack of a smile.

It should be considered weird, that a man wouldn't smile for a picture if he knew it was going to be put in a medallion owned by his soldier friend, and-

Oh.

Of course. John had been carrying that medallion as a memory of what was at stake. They had probably been told something like "Think of someone who's worth fighting for" and "Think of that one person you wish to save" or some sentimental stuff like that. So John had been thinking of him in his final hours. Well, hopefully he hadn't been too busy to think about the mission at hand.

The news presenter continued explaining who this man was but Sherlock was not listening. He was instead wondering. John had been bothered by something the last time he came home from military training, but he hadn't told what. He had just said it was nothing, nothing that he needed to know of. But knowing John as well as he did, Sherlock was sure it was something he ought to know. It had clearly weighed heavily on John's conscience so why not let someone else hear about it? That was the healthy way to deal with problematic thoughts, Sherlock knew that but had never found himself in need of it.

Unless, of course, he had been the one bothering John's mind. Then he obviously wouldn't be consulted about it, people were often reluctant to talk about problems with their partner, especially if the partner _was_ the problem. So what had John been thinking? What worries could John have about him, except of course the obvious ones – was his love real, did he mean the things he said, how was he really feeling about John, and so on and on and on.

Sherlock frowned, staring at the screen but not at all paying attention. They had clearly moved on, anyway, so it was nothing of interest. They had known each other for, well, quite a time now, and they had been partners for a considerable amount of that time, so what reason did John have to believe that Sherlock's love was fake or untrustworthy? Sherlock hadn't really had a relationship before, except for to his drugs, maybe that was why John had doubted him? Because Sherlock could as well be confused about his emotions? But that was ridiculous! He was never confused or insecure about his feelings, how absurd to even think the thought!

The phone that had been in his hands all this time now fell to the floor, slowly slipping between his fingers and ending on the carpet with a soft sound. Sherlock sat further up in the armchair and crossed his arms, frowning harder. What in the world had John been thinking? Why was he so unsure of Sherlock's love? He was the only one who had seen it, it should be pretty bloody obvious what that meant, even for him! John wasn't stupid, and far more interested in love and relationships than Sherlock had ever been, he of all people should know that Sherlock's love was genuine.

Only idiots like Donovan or Anderson would think it was a trick.

Why would Sherlock play such a trick on the only person who had been kind to him? Sure, they had had their quarrels and arguments, but everybody had. There was no way he would ever toy with John's emotions. The mere thought was ridiculous. Sherlock couldn't claim that he hadn't done it before with other people – in some cases, it had proven necessary – but not John. Anyone but John.

Yet it seemed that John had doubted in his love, even if just a tiny, tiny bit. He might not even have been aware of it himself. A small thought in his mind, planted by something or someone, slowly but steadily growing over time. What could have been the reason? Sherlock had many theories, some of them he could easily try out, it would only require ten minutes with the police and Mrs. Hudson, but just as he got up from the armchair after having turned off the telly, there was a knocking on the door.

Sherlock turned towards it and saw a man but before the other got to introduce himself, Sherlock had found out what he needed to know. It was the man he had spoken with earlier, clearly here to hand him something, possibly a letter of some sort. It wasn't in his hand but in his inner pocket, and given the vague bulging, there had to be more than just a letter, probably something they had found on John's body, doubtlessly the medallion.

Sherlock stopped in his track.

"Major," he said and noticed how his fingers didn't as much as shake. He could as well not be feeling a thing.

"Sherlock Holmes." His voice was naturally loud, hard, clearly used to command hundreds of people around. "We spoke over the phone earlier-"

"Yes, and now you're here to give me a letter and something that John used to possess that he now wants me to have." He had already reached out his hand to accept it, not waiting for the major to talk. But before the other even reached for the envelope, he did talk.

"What were you to Captain Watson?" He squinted and crossed his arms.

"What does it matter?"

"It's a question of importance to the military."

"Nonsense, it's for your own sake. That, or you want to fool me into believing you actually care. Neither are good procedures when concerning me. Hand me the letter." He stretched his arm out a little bit more, fingers spreading.

"I advise to talk to me in a better manner, Sherlock."

But _why_? Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his hands into the pockets of his trousers. God, couldn't the man just give him what he came to deliver and then go away, it would be much better.

"I'm here to hand you a personal note from Captain Watson as well as a personal belonging that he wished was passed onto you. There was no one else he told us to contact in case he should be killed."

"Did he expect to be killed?"

The major seemed outright outraged by such a suggestion. He straightened himself the little bit more he could before stepping closer to Sherlock who didn't as much as totter. Big and bulky men that tried to stare him down was something he was surprisingly used to.

"No soldier expects to be killed, Holmes, but neither do they expect to get out of a mission completely unharmed."

They stared at each other for a few seconds, the major with narrowed eyes and clenched jaws, Sherlock with devastatingly calm breathing and relaxed movements when he offered a seat.

"You know that homosexuals aren't looked well upon in the military, don't you?"

No, this piece of information was brand new to Sherlock. He couldn't help his eyebrows' fleeting rise.

"What are you implying, major?"

"That if anyone had known about your relationship to Captain John, he would probably not have been sent away. If he hadn't been sent away, he would not have died."

"So in short, John wouldn't have died if I wasn't involved with him." Why did sound very possible to him?

"So you _were_ his partner."

Sherlock snorted and put his hands together in front of his face, staring right at the major with something close to amusement in his gaze. Pennders was trying to play with him, trying to see if he could fool him into providing information.

He leant back in the chair, fighting the impulse to tap his fingers against the armrest of the chair. It was vital that he remained absolutely calm. If he pretended not to feel anything, the other would leave again, and hopefully quickly.

"If you would just give me the letter, major, it would spare both of us for troublesome questions and answers, and you will go back to your drunk and angry wife sooner than expected. I'm sure that would please her, don't you think?"

For a moment, surprise was clear on the other's face. His eyes went wide and while his mouth did open, not a sound escaped it. Sherlock rolled his eyes again, crossing his legs and putting both arms on the rests.

"Easy. You smell of alcohol but not out of your mouth, meaning that you can't have drunk it. You came in with heavy steps with long interval, witnessing that you're frustrated about something, and combined with the fact that you have tried to remove your wedding ring, oh please, stop looking so surprised, it has left clear red marks on your finger, it's not hard to conclude it has something to do with her."

The major simply stared at him, and Sherlock could feel a small smile beginning to grow onto his face. Oh, this was just too easy. But hopefully this wouldn't scare the man enough so he left without handing over the letter. Really, though, Sherlock would make sure to get it, one way or another.

"Angry? Yes, why else would she have upset you? You look like a man who keeps his words and is nice to his fellow humans, but of course, so does murderers, but you would never murder your wife because you love her. Sentiment, but I suppose I can't walk free of that anymore, either. That really is a problem, actually."

It couldn't be allowed to evolve. He couldn't let this feeling of horror in his chest grow and take over his life, like it had taken over John's. That was one mistake he would make sure not to make.

"Furthermore, the marks on your-"

"Yes, Holmes, that's fine, I'm convinced that you know, now, shut up." Sherlock's smile was cunning, knowing, but he did shut up. Half the fun of doing this thing was freaking people out. He didn't say anything but his position witnessed of impatience; his fingers were twitching lightly, itching to do something but unable to really show. His gaze began to wander and he sighed excessively, provocatively.

His eyes found a place to rest when the major reached under his jacket, pulling out an envelope heavier in one end than the other, bulging lightly.

"Here are the letter and Captain John's little gift to you," he grumbled. Sherlock wasn't late in snatching the envelope out of the other's hand and looked it over, cringing about the material. Cheap, mass-produced, no personal touch. But John wouldn't have access to an envelope in the middle of a war in Iraq, so this couldn't have been his choice. Clearly the military's. Sherlock looked up at the major who observed him.

"Your wife is waiting, Major." It was said in a low, soft voice that would melt the heart of every young girl more effectively than whatever new Hollywood-star was 'in'. It was almost a purr. Low, definitely not like Sherlock, witnessing of danger to those who paid attention.

Luckily for the major, he was one of those people, and he got up from the chair, though without rush. He was not scared of Sherlock, not in the slightest, but there was something about him that unnerved him.

Sherlock followed him with the eyes as he walked towards the door, his fingers resting on the front of the envelope where someone had written 'To Sherlock Holmes from Captain John Hamish Watson'. They sure were fussy about details.

Pennders stopped by the door frame and though he began talking to Sherlock, he didn't look at him.

"They told me to prepare for you. Told me you were a freak. Not like everyone else. They're definitely right. I can't see why Captain John would be with one like you."

Sherlock didn't react but simply looked down at the object in his hands. Freak. One like you. Oh, it was quite a time since he had those words from a stranger. Just as unpleasant as he remembered them. If John had been here, he would have socked him one, despite the military status. John was good at that but tended to take a bit too far sometimes.

He was left in silence when the military man finally left the room, closing the door after him with a hard 'slam'. There would clearly be two angry people in his house tonight.

He carefully opened the envelope. It wasn't hard, seeing as it was closed with ordinary tape and not a fancy seal. Inside he found two pieces of paper and a long golden chain with an oval medallion fastened to it. Sherlock turned the wrapping upside-down and let both paper and medallion fall into his hand. He started with the letter and couldn't fight back a small smile by the sight of John's handwriting. It was easy to read, unlike most doctors', yet still pressed together.

Sherlock hadn't tried to decipher John's scribbles when they were unclear and smudged, though. The smile disappeared.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_When I say 'dear', I mean it. You're the most... the most annoying, idiotic and selfish bag of shit I have ever met. But you know what? I like that. You have your reasons to be like that, and I can't pretend I don't feel sorry for you. I wish I could have helped you back then, too, so that you would be a freer man today. Because now you're inhibited by your past and your fears, and it's sad to see. You pretend like nothing is wrong but there are times where not even you can hide it. Sherlock, when you're reading this, you already know that I can't help you anymore. I'm sorry. I was supposed to be there for you. _

_I promised myself to always be there for you. That I would always help you, no matter the problem. And now look where I am._

Sherlock's head twitched the tiniest bit, upwards, as if looking up at the ceiling.

_You just looked up, didn't you? I knew you would. You're so predictable sometimes, Sherlock. I'm just glad I was the only one who found out. I have to admit that I was also selfish. You know how I was always on edge whenever you and Irene were together or simply talking. You have already figured it out, but damn it, Sherlock, I didn't like to see that! Ah, that came out a bit harsh, didn't it? It wasn't supposed to, my apologies. _

The corner of Sherlock's lips cringed upwards, and his eyes flickered to the next paragraph. John had had a lot on his heart when writing this, it seemed.

_I know you're probably wondering what I was worrying about when I got home from the military training not too long ago. If you haven't figured it out already, I'll say it now. It won't really help you now, given that I'm dead and all... but anyway, here goes._

_I was always worried that I wasn't good enough for you, Sherlock. You're so brilliant, so clever, intelligent, I feared you thought I was 'dull'. I always thought that if the impossible came true and you got yourself a girl- or boyfriend, it would be someone like Irene. Someone you could play games with, someone who could give you a real challenge. I must seem so boring to you, don't I? I'm nowhere as smart as you, and I'm sure that's a bother to you sometimes. I know I'm asking you and I know you can't answer me but... well, never mind that. _

Sherlock's smile was still on his face but it had changed from fond to sad. John, oh dear John, such a fool to think those things. Everyone was boring to him. John had begun to pick up some of his thinking habits and he had surprised him a great deal when he first showed this. He had even surprised himself. It seemed he had not realized he had been doing it. Sherlock felt warm by the thought.

_Maybe you're wondering if you're part of this. Perhaps you think about whether I suspected you for faking your love for me. Did you really think that, Sherlock? I'm sorry but I just don't think you could fake that. _You_ can fake anything but love. That was pretty clear for me. I know you loved me with all of your heart. Thank you, Sherlock. For that. Thank you for trusting me. I'm not the only one of us who have trust issues. Yours just go way, way back. _

_I should probably go soon, I think we're moving every minute now. Oh well. It's not like it's hard to write this again, it's just... I'm scared, Sherlock. Of leaving you alone, I mean. I'm afraid of how you're going to be when you've lost me. Not because you love me or that, but because I was someone you let get close to you, closer than anyone else, I dare say, and I disappointed you. I left you. I'm so sorry, Sherlock, you have no idea. _

This paragraph was the hardest to read. The letters were particularly mashed together and smudged by what could only be tears. It didn't help that more dribbled onto the paper.

_I did just what everyone else did – got close, made you feel special, accepted, left you. The only thing that is different is that I didn't choose to. I really don't want this, Sherlock, I really, really don't. I want to grow old with you. I want to go against the rest of the world with you. Just the two of us. It would probably be for the best if you forgot about me but at the same time, I want you to remember me. To keep me somewhere in that odd mind palace of yours. Can you promise you will not forget about me, Sherlock? _

_Oh, I better be off, I can hear the others start to pack. I'm sorry, Sherlock. Please, stay safe, don't let anyone get you down, and please, don't relapse. Mrs. Hudson won't be pleased if you can't pay the rent because you owe drug dealers money, y'know? Say hi to her from me, by the way. And Lestrade, when you're at it. Probably Mycroft, too. And if you see Moriarty, give him a bloody nose from me, will you? Ta. _

_I love you, and no one can ever convince me you don't love me back. Not ever. Good luck with everything, Sherlock._

_Yours truly,_

_John_

His chest ached. John. Oh dear John, that silly man. He could be so impossibly sentimental. It had been fun to read the e-mails to his girlfriends, but it was something entirely different to be the recipient.

With shaking fingers and a blurred vision, he set the papers aside and took a look at the medallion. Small, oval, just enough room for a small picture of someone you hold dear. And that someone was Sherlock. He shouldn't be surprised, he had seen it in the television, but it was something else to sit with it in his hands. It wasn't exactly heavy but you would notice it if you lost it. Perfect weight for someone who couldn't afford to have too many personal objects with him but still wanted something really special.

Sherlock sniffed, and though it was not his intention, he studied the state of the jewellery. The picture was a bit smudgy and wavy in the edges, possibly rain, meaning that John had been sitting with it open in the rain, but trying to protect it, then taken it somewhere hot to dry. He wouldn't let it dry by itself, afraid it would ruin the picture. The opening mechanism worked easily, witnessing that it had been used lots of times; John had been looking at the picture often. Being sentimental as he was, it was probably one of the last things he did before going to bed.

There were two small frames in it, but only one was in use, showing that John hadn't thought himself important enough to go into the other, or that no one else was as important as Sherlock.

"John, you stupid little..." He sighed, shakily, and noticed that even though tears fell down his face, he was smiling. That was odd, how could someone smile when they were sad?

He closed the medallion, clenched it tightly and took his hand to his chest. Oh John...

Was the door locked? He hoped it was locked. He didn't want anyone to burst into the room right now. The only possible one would be Mrs. Hudson but that would be bad anyway. He couldn't let himself be seen in this state, it was... wrong... for him. Sherlock didn't cry, it just wasn't in his nature to do so, unless it could help in a case.

Sherlock got up from the chair, still with the medallion in a firm grip, and walked out into the kitchen. What he looked for he wasn't exactly sure but he needed something, something that could cut. A knife, scissors, anything. And he needed a picture. How did he get a picture of John without being suspicious? People would ask what he needed it for, and he couldn't tell. He would prefer if no one knew about this… Ah! Of course!

Finally, he found a scissor and he went back to the living room, searching for a newspaper he could use. It really wasn't hard. Finding ones with pictures in them, he searched for a picture of John or both of them together. This wasn't hard, either. The newspapers were practically littered with them. Despite shaking fingers, he managed to cut out a picture of both him and John, and he put it into the empty frame. He cut out another picture, this time only with John, and placed it over his own picture. There. Two pictures of each. They were equal.

Then he closed the medallion and kissed the warm, golden material. His head was pounding and his heart aching like it was slowly being pulled out through his chest.

"It's alright, John. I forgive you. If you promise to forgive me."

Because what was there _not_ to forgive him for?

* * *

***sing song voice* The end. No, but really, I hope it wasn't been too stupid, bad or anything. Have a nice day! ^^**


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